Dirty Old Man
by Tintinnabula
Summary: One shots, because not everyone wants to read 200,000 word dramas, or so I've heard. Chapter 3: Red. A Valentine's one shot. No lemon. kakasaku
1. Distraction

_Disclaimer: Naruto and associated characters are property of Masashi Kishimoto. They are not my property!_

These stories are for mature audiences only, hence the "M" rating. Please use discretion.

**Distraction**

_I look at you, and I can't look away. I know I shouldn't be staring, but thought and action are two very different things, aren't they? I've thought and thought about the stupidity of this little obsession I've grown, and I've taken both sides of the argument it's spawned. The age difference between us, I've told myself, might as well be an eternity. We're not in the same decade of life—hell, we're not even in adjacent decades. A woman like you, so soft, so innocent and lovely, a girl, almost, still in her teens--- a woman like you deserves far better than a tainted man like me. Doesn't she? But then I laugh at the fact that I've carried myself so far afield. Looking isn't the same as touching, and touching isn't the same as loving. Besides, you never have to find out._

_But I want you to find out, I realize. I want you to feel my touch. And I so want to touch you. Your skin, I'm sure, is satin, your lips, velvet, your taste, honeyed. I'm intoxicated by your smell, redolent of the mock orange blossoms I came across in the southernmost countries. I smelled them for the first time and dreamt of you that night and for weeks after. You intoxicate me, and I find myself making any excuse I can just to get a little closer to you._

_But then I find myself pushing you, harder than I should, berating you more than is necessary. Part of me is very afraid of your power over me, and part of me feels guilty at the feelings my lashing out evokes. Today, as usual, you're sweating, more than usual as the weather is oppressively hot, and because I've been oppressively demanding. You peel your sweat-soaked tank away from your skin, to allow any random breeze to cool you. I can't look away. I glimpse the skin of your abdomen, and although I've seen it many times before, in this context it's sensual, and as you uncover it, fanning yourself with the hem of your shirt, I experience a forbidden thrill. You turn towards me, but not before I bury my head in my book, and not before I note the shine of the small river of perspiration that runs downs your neck and into the cleavage barely visible at the top of your shirt. I want to lick it away. Your shirt's straps are skinny, I notice in that second, too skinny for you to be wearing a bra. Not that you'd need to. Your breasts are small, but perfect, and I long to feel for myself just how firm they are._

_I abuse my Sharingan on your behalf. Well, to be honest, that's not the only thing I've abused. But again, I can't help myself. I find myself wishing that my gifted kekkai genkai were Byakugan. It's the first time I've ever been less than satisfied with this gift from my first real friend, and again I feel guilty. With some ostentation, I pull off my hitae-ate and mop at my brow. It remains off, so that the camera of my left eye can observe you and memorize the slightest details of your movements and expressions._

_God, how I want you. And more than that, I want you to want me. You seem to be clueless, and that, of course, is my fault. My features are all but hidden, and I've schooled my own eye well. I do my best to calm my breathing around you, and I studiously ignore you, outside of the training grounds. But that doesn't mean I keep my distance._

_You're still a virgin—I'm sure of it, just as I'm sure you're annoyed by it. I've discovered, quite accidentally, that the closer I sit to you, the farther the boys stay away. Even if I'm in the same room they're wary. That's fine with me, because I've come to the conclusion that I want you for myself. I want to mark you, claim you. I want to love you and make love to you. And I realize that this is the first time I've ever felt this way._

_I try to focus on my novel. It's the best one of the series, but compared to you, its pages are desert dry and bereft of beauty. I don't want to read something by a man who's never experienced requited love. I want the real thing. I want you._

_You're moving towards me right now, stalking towards me like a kitten investigating a downed insect: you're intent, yet tentative, aware that the toy you've been seeking may jump up and buzz madly. But you've always been tenacious. Even now, despite the way I've treated you, you're open with me, and eager to be a friend. You're like a daruma doll-- punched again and again, you always bounce back, ready for more._

_How could I have been so wrong about you? The traits I dismissed as weak are anything but. You have the gentle strength of kindness. Your compassion is a balm. I want you to know this, but I'm afraid to tell you._

_When did I become a coward? When in my life have I done anything but reach out and take what life offered? Why on earth should I hold back now?_

_Because you're young. Because you're untouched. Because experiences have shaped the clay of my personality and fired it into stone. Your experiences have yet to occur._

_Would it be wrong to be a part of them? Would it be wrong to play the sculptor?_

_What would you do, Sakura, if I reached out and touched you? Maybe that would be too forward. Perhaps I should pull down the mask and let you see that you do provoke a reaction in me. Maybe I should kiss you. Maybe I should take you right here—_

"Sensei? Kakashi-sensei? Is everything okay? You've been staring at that same page for over half an hour, you know… You don't look well. Your eyes are glazed over, and I've never seen you sweat before. You're not—you're not having a heart attack, are you?"


	2. Administrivia

Disclaimer_: Naruto and associated characters are the property of Masashi Kishimoto. They are not my property and no profit will be made, nor is intended to be made, from this work of fiction._

**Administrivia.**

Kakashi hated being hokage, for the job was just as he expected. There were endless piles of documents, each needing his comments or stamp of approval. Still more reading was required to stay up to date on the intricacies of statecraft and the maintenance of the subtle balance of power among the five great nations. Then there were the pointless meetings intended to bolster the egos of those calling them. These happened at least three times daily, often more, and at those times the man once known as copy ninja wished fervently that he could slip away, as he used to, into the fantasy world of _Icha, Icha_. This was no longer possible, however, at least not in that venue. It was truly unfortunate that these meetings, however snail-paced, required his full participation.

Still worse was the fact that as hokage, he'd been urged—well, perhaps that was too gentle a word—to remove his mask. The reasoning of the elders had seemed quite sound on its surface: it was unlikely that a masked man, no matter how honored or well-known, would inspire the trust required to lead the village. Furthermore, relations with both allies and enemies required a degree of openness that would be contradicted, symbolically, should his face remain covered. More likely their "suggestion" had been due to both simple curiosity and an awareness of the fact that though Kakashi was nominally the man in charge, the elders wielded considerable behind-the-scenes power.

So Kakashi-sama came to work every day, late, as usual (they had to leave him something, after all), stripped of the accessories that had allowed him to maintain the distance he had fought long and hard to establish. He dressed not in the long white and red robes of the third, or the casual attire of the fifth, but in what he thought was both a compromise of these two extremes and a symbol of his authority. The hokage's hat he had thrown away as soon as it crossed his desk: its conical shape reminded the rokudaime too much of the Akatsuki and the deaths of several dear to him. His flack jacket and blue fatigues had been out of the question: the casual clothes he preferred were too closely associated in his mind with his beloved mask. Instead he wore a black haori, emblazoned across its back with mon of the leaf and the kanji, "fire", and secured with the silly, white, pom-pon-tailed himo that signaled formality. Black hakama underlined the seriousness of the getup. His reasoning for such clothing was simple: the color black symbolized sobriety, while the most formal style of kimono, the gravity of the office. Apart from this, the costume was quite comfortable, assuming one was not about to be called for a mission. Of course, as hokage, that was pretty much out of the question. He barely had time to get in a short training session each day.

Instead, the rokudaime's day consisted of waking up at dawn, and downing a quick breakfast of coffee and melon pan while reviewing the stacks of paperwork remaining from the previous night. Izumo would have a fit, he knew, if they weren't on his desk by 8:00 a.m., the quite reasonable hour at which that man rolled into work. Still, Kakashi had no intention of delivering them to his aide precisely on time. At half-past eight (or nine, or ten), he'd saunter down the long, narrow staircase that connected his suite directly to the hokage's office, and listen amusedly as Izumo cursed his existence for a minute or twelve before realizing that the object of his irritation was sitting just behind him, office door open. After his very short work commute, Kakashi would invariably find all flat surfaces of his desk covered in the new day's work. His small act of passive-aggressive behavior was the first thing he'd thought of to get at least a tiny bit of amusement out of a very depressing situation. After this short interlude of one-sided levity, the rokudaime would do his best to plow through a mountain of administrative tasks by nine or ten that evening. This assumed, of course, that there were only two or three meetings to sit through, meetings which inevitably led to no other agreement than a consensus to "table things until next time." He'd been naïve, he'd realized only days into the job, to have assumed that the hokage wielded any true power apart from the assignment of mission teams.

In short, the job comprised the type of work he hated most, and nothing for which he'd ever trained. It was ridiculous that the job of hokage went to the person proven the strongest shinobi in the village—being able to spy, assassinate and out and out slaughter the enemy had very little in common with the administrative skills needed to manage a village. True, leadership was involved in both jobs, but of two very different kinds. The type at which Kakashi excelled was the non-paper-pushing variety.

Worse than all this, however, was the part of the job description he hated to think about: the sundry roles encompassed by the words "Other duties as necessary." The job he currently faced was one of them.

Kakashi had arranged his schedule today to save this most unsavory task for last, and not surprisingly, the day had flown by. The three, two-hour meetings today, about protocol for state visits (the order in which the elders and clan leaders would receive heads of state, to be exact), taxes, and the upcoming festival had been as boring and pointless as usual, as again nothing of substance had been decided, but they had been over in a blink, it seemed. As usual he'd done his best to give the appearance of paying attention, but instead of daydreaming about the things he could be doing, were there any justice in the world, he'd thought of meeting planned for later in the day.

She would be crushed. It had been a difficult two years for his former student. Her shishou had died not long after Sakura's sixteenth birthday, and she had been devastated. While the death had been honorable, heroic, in fact, it didn't change the fact that the person Sakura most looked up to was gone. Gone as Sasuke was, gone as her parents were. Kakashi knew the pain of forced solitude and also knew that he wouldn't wish it on his worst enemy. Sakura was far from that, and that made it worse. He could feel the steady misery beneath the smile she flashed at him during their monthly meetings, and he was all too familiar with the stratagem of taking on extra work in an effort to avoid confronting ones feelings. He'd tried to talk to her about it, though unsuccessfully, and had even gone so far as to suggest some r and r, which she'd declined, characteristically. Perhaps he should have ordered it, he thought now. It might have put her in a stronger frame of mind to hear today's news.

He'd spent the better part of the day thinking of the right words. How would he tell her that her last teammate was gone? How had the third imparted this news to him, years ago? He couldn't remember—that part of his history was a blank. But as rokudaime, Kakashi had given such news time and time again: although it was the least liked part of his job, he'd had plenty of opportunity to practice. But it was never easy to tell another of a death of a loved one. And it was even worse when you cared about the recipient of such news.

He had a soft spot for Sakura, he'd realized years ago. It hadn't formed at their first meeting. The girl that blushed profusely as she snuck glances at her first crush had completely exasperated him. And it wasn't attraction, but misogyny that had caused him to behave as he did toward her. It had been Sakura whom he always shielded when the fighting got rough, Sakura whom he carried to safety again and again, and Sakura whom he assigned to the easiest tasks, despite her vast intelligence and superior chakra control. But this hadn't been due to the attributes some described as cute, and others as annoying. At the time he'd truly thought she couldn't handle the tasks before her. He'd thought that no woman could. But despite her boy-crazy nature, Sakura had been years more mature than her two teammates, who spent most of their time engaged in a pissing contest that escalated slowly into a near-death match. Sakura had been a rock, he'd realized belatedly, though not inanimate. She'd been the glue that held the team together, and she'd been the sponge that absorbed its deep pain. And she'd understood things so much better than anyone else on the team, leader included. Her sensei's desire to protect her had been seen, correctly, as sexist, as paternalistic, and condescending and she'd finally left him, although it could be argued that he'd abandoned her first.

So when had the soft spot developed? When she was fifteen, he guessed. This was when she had proven his beliefs about her wrong. She'd pounded them into the ground, in fact. He'd seen before him a young woman of uncommon beauty, strength and intelligence, and irrationally, he'd been quite proud. He'd savored the small amount of time they'd spent as teammates after that, and he went out of his way to find reasons to seek her out. Upon assuming the mantle of hokage, he'd instituted a monthly meeting with her, ostensibly to check up on the needs of the hospital she ran. He wasn't honest with her, though he was with himself. He understood clearly that he simply wanted to spent time in her presence.

And what was wrong with that? Nothing, he'd argued to himself countless times. She was a beautiful woman, a kunoichi of the first caliber, a shinobi who'd surpassed the godaime's strength and medical skills years before. And she hadn't been his student for six years. There was nothing wrong with spending time with her, he'd finally concluded-- as hokage, he was above certain rules. And what was the worst that could happen? Getting fired? Besides, it was clear she had no idea of his feelings for him. This made sense, as he wasn't quite sure of the extent of his feelings himself.

Even before she knocked, he knew she was at the door, and the rokudaime quickly rehearsed the words he planned to say to her. They'd be inadequate, certainly. Such words always were. But it was the best he could do, he'd decided.

"Douzo."

The door swung open and the object of his recent thoughts stepped inside the large, oblong office.

"Kakashi-sama? You wanted to see me?" She bowed in his direction and he frowned.

"We agreed that there's no need to call me that. We have too much history to stand on ceremony."

"Sensei."

"That, either. Just Kakashi, remember?"

"Kakashi."

He smiled gently as he moved away from his desk and patted one of a pair of upholstered chairs. "Join me?"

"Is this about the budget? I know we're over for this quarter, but it was for critical supplies. The price of antibiotics has gone up considerably—"

"No, Sakura. It's not about that." He saw her grow tense at his words, though he'd done his best to utter them soothingly.

"What's wrong?" She searched his face. "It's Naruto, isn't it? He's been gone for too long."

"He's been checking in monthly by harrier. But…" His carefully rehearsed words failed him as devastation flooded her face. "Sakura." He took her hand. "There's no easy way to say this."

"Don't sugar coat it, sensei. Just give me the facts." Her voice quavered, but her eyes retained the fierce, determined look he'd come to love.

"We haven't received a message from him in two months. I sent a reconnaissance team out after the first lapse, and another two after the second, but they had nothing to report until yesterday."

"And?"

"I'm sorry. He's dead."

"Dead? How do you know? Did they find his hitae ate, or his jacket or something? There could be any number of explanations…"

He searched her face. "I wouldn't be telling you this unless the recon team was positive."

She blinked once, then rapidly in succession in an effort to fight back tears. "His body. You're telling me they found his body."

Kakashi didn't respond. He didn't need to.

"Cause of death?"

The rokudaime sighed. "Still uncertain." That wasn't exactly true, but she didn't need to hear the gruesome details of Naruto's evident torture and slow death by dehydration. They'd somehow depleted not only his chakra, but that of the nine tails, and burned by its massive release and without medical care, he'd probably died quite painfully. Upon reading the recon's team report, Kakashi had vowed that he would do everything in his power to make sure Sakura would not get the chance to view his body or gain access to the report. Admittedly, this would be difficult to accomplish, as she was head of hospital, but there were some small benefits to being hokage, it seemed. There was no way he'd allow Sakura to feel the horror and unmatched sorrow of viewing the desecrated body of a loved one. The image of his mother, draped across the disemboweled body of his father flashed into view. A lifetime had passed since then, but the image was still printed indelibly onto his subconscious. If he could spare her that--

"He was so strong. Even stronger than you."

"I know." Kakashi shifted in his seat. "He surpassed me long ago. I was looking forward to handing the reins over to him. Everything was in place to anoint him shichidaime." He sighed. "It took forever to win over the council, but they'd finally agreed." It had been almost impossible in fact, to convince the elders, as they rarely agreed about anything, but Kakashi had stuck at it, wearing them down bit by bit until they finally agreed. He'd had no choice, really, but to do so. Naruto wanted to be hokage so badly, and he wanted it so little. And most importantly, the jinchuuriki, once Konoha's ichiban goofball, finally had been ready.

"He wanted it so much. It took me years to realize he really was capable of it. He hated studying, but he immersed himself in the minutiae of the job. He really wanted it. He loved every aspect of the job."

"I know." Kakashi laughed softly. "He would have been much better at it than I."

Sakura rose from her seat and stood by the large, plate glass window that dominated the room.

"It's been sunny for the past two months. There hasn't been a cloud for all that time. Look how beautiful it is tonight." Kakashi moved to her side as she pointed to the pink-tinged sky. "It's wrong. It should be raining—it should have been raining since the day he died." She turned her head away from him, but it was clear that she'd moved from weeping to silently sobbing. Her body shook as each breath wracked her.

"Sakura." He lay his hand on her shoulder and moved closer to her.

"He survived the Akatsuki. He survived Sasuke. Why now? How is this fair?"

_It's not. It's never fair. _

But he wouldn't say these words aloud. He knew they wouldn't help.

"It's okay—"

"—to cry," he would have finished, but she interrupted him, a wild look in her eyes, a look he'd seen many times in the course of duty, but never from her.

"No, it's _not_ okay! How can you say that? Everyone's gone! Everyone I love is gone!" She collapsed against him and keened in despair.

He'd been to her parents' funerals, and he'd been by her side at Tsunade's. But those hadn't been this bad. She'd been somewhat collected then, though falsely so, he now realized. It was as though a frozen pipe had suddenly burst: the pressure of her release was intense, and its flow showed no sign of subsiding.

So he held her, and stroked her back as she clung to him and lost herself in her misery.

He whispered to her, using words one might say to an infant or small child: soft, comforting nonsense that let her know he was with her and that she was safe.

Her tears ebbed, and she pulled away from her comforter, but not before he ran his thumb along the last wet trail on her cheek, following his calloused touch with a gentle kiss. It was meant to be chaste, but her reaction was anything but.

"Please. Do that again."

He did. This time his lips touched lightly against her tear-reddened eyelids, and he felt her shudder in response.

"No. Like this." She pressed her lips against him clumsily, inadvertently communicating to him the level of her inexperience. Nonetheless, he returned the embrace, subtly instructing her in the skills she lacked. As her lips parted, more likely from surprise than from any desire to please, he entered her mouth and gently explored its dark passage. He felt her hands run through his hair as she relaxed against him, and he concluded that this kiss was different than the hundreds of others he'd experienced before. He was in no hurry to take things further. He didn't want this simple kiss to end.

But he did end it, after a time, when he felt a wetness against his cheek. She was crying again, he realized.

"Sakura?"

"I'm sorry."

"For what?" For kissing him? Kakashi honestly hoped she wasn't about to run from the room in embarrassment.

"For what I said before. About all of the people I love being gone."

"There are plenty of people left who still love _you_, you know."

She whispered something inaudible in response, and he looked at her curiously.

"Is that a no?" Her voice was oddly strained and he saw color rising to her cheeks. Kakashi quickly wrapped his arms around her again, in an effort to mitigate the embarrassment she seemed to be feeling.

"I didn't hear you. Please tell me what you said."

She took a deep breath, and looked down as she spoke. "Would you make love to me?"

"N-now?" He never would have expected her to spring that on him. He'd been planning on working up to it slowly, getting her used to the idea that he had feelings for her, then exploring those feelings slowly… Why was she asking him this now?

"It's okay. Forget it. This was just a huge mis—"

"No. Stop. It wasn't a mistake. Believe me, it wasn't. At least, not on my part."

She was still looking down, still blushing in a shade that approached that of her uniquely beautiful hair. "It wasn't?" she asked finally.

"Was it for you?"

"No. I've been wanting to do that for a long time." She raised her head and smiled shyly at him.

"No, Sakura."

It took a moment for her to register his response. Her shy smile turned quickly into an expression of hurt and dismay. "Why not?"

"Why do you want this? Why now?"

"Because…" Her eyes closed as she pondered his question. "I'm not sure," she whispered after some time.

He lifted her chin and kissed her again, slowly but passionately, eager to show her how right they were together. She was reluctant to end the kiss, repeatedly pulling him closer. He garnered some hope from this. Finally, they parted. Arm loosely wrapped around her, the rokudaime brushed the hair out of her eyes as he spoke.

"When you _are_ sure, come and find me. I'll be waiting."

Kakashi walked her to the door, shut it firmly behind her and slumped against it. The job of hokage was difficult, but that was easily the hardest thing he'd ever done.

It took every bit of willpower for him not to run after her. He turned instead to his desk and the pile of paperwork scattered upon it, now more trivial than ever. There was plenty to do before bed, he realized.


	3. Red

_Naruto and associated characters are property of Masashi Kishimoto, not me. No profit will be made, or is intended to be made from this work of fiction._

**Red**

"Where's my candy?" Naruto's plaintive, dumbfounded query would have been amusing if it hadn't been so annoying.

"Have you ever gotten Sakura candy in return?" a characteristically sober, and still cynical Sasuke asked the blond-haired jounin in reply.

"Well, no, but…" Naruto scratched his head. "Getting a Valentine's gift from Sakura is something you can count on, like rain in April, or the ramen at Ichiraku. You've _always_ gotten us something. Last year it was homemade fudge, the year before, Pocky, and raspberry truffles the year before that. And—"

"I didn't have time, okay? Besides, it's a stupid holiday." A red tinge crept into Sakura's cheeks as she spoke, though her two longtime teammates did not appear to notice.

"But I didn't even pack a lunch today!"

"Moron. Were you actually planning on subsisting on chocolate?" Sasuke regarded his teammate with derision. "It's a wonder you don't have scurvy, or something."

"What did I do to make you angry, Sakura? I don't believe this! Who else is going to give me chocolate?"

"I think you should drop it, both of you." Kakashi looked up from his ever-present book to glance at his teammates, allowing his gaze to linger on the group's sole female member." It's about time we got started, anyway. Ten laps around the perimeter should be about right. Then we'll spar in practice area three."

His order was met with two groans, and one blank stare. Sakura was unresponsive, lost in her own thoughts.

The foursome dropped their packs (Sakura, after some prodding by Sasuke) at the ancient oak that served as their unofficial base camp for cross country training, and headed down the trail.

"No jogging. I want a full-out sprint."

"For ten laps? You've got to be kidding!"

"Have you ever heard me kid?"

"Sasuke, how about a race? If I win, I get your lunch."

"And if I win?"

"--- Umm…"

"I get to order you around for a week. Anything goes." Sakura heard the smug smile in the voice of her former obsession. She wondered for the umpteenth time if something was going on between him and Naruto. The homoerotic undertones were unmistakable, at times.

The two took off, the blond whooping, the brunette intent, and Sakura fell back a bit. Kakashi wouldn't expect her to keep up with the boys, or himself, and today that suited her just fine. Her mood had been beyond irritable the past few days, and as today's holiday was the source of that irritation, she thought it prudent to be alone. She was likely to rip the head off of anyone who got too close.

Kakashi, she noticed, ran on ahead, disappearing beyond one of the many hillocks that added to the trail's difficulty. She smiled wryly.

_He didn't even care that I didn't bring him chocolate._

But that wasn't surprising. After last year's gift, he hadn't even mussed her hair the way he always did to show affection. He'd become distant, since then, although given his taciturn, stoic nature, the signs of this had been very subtle.

Still, she was sure of it. They'd once trained together frequently. This was no longer true—today was a rarity, and at Naruto's insistence. And on the occasions when they did train as a group, he kept his distance, always assigning either Sasuke or Naruto as her partner.

It was obvious she hadn't lived up to her former teacher's expectations. She really couldn't blame him, she guessed, for avoiding her. Sure, she was a first-rate medic, her genjutsu skills were developing rapidly, and she was skilled at the forms of taijutsu requiring the precise delivery of brute strength. But as for ninjutsu? Her aim was off at times, and she still had a tendency to let her emotions get the best of her. She'd failed, in short, at the few things Kakashi had struggled to teach her. No wonder he kept his distance. What teacher wanted to be reminded of his less than stellar students?

But his failures as a teacher hadn't kept her from idolizing him. She'd long considered him the most influential man in her life, and the one she most respected. Apart from his perverted reading habits, the man was as fine a shinobi as she'd ever met. He exemplified everything she'd ever learned about the ideals of her profession, and for years she'd felt a warmth, a heart-filling pride flow through her whenever he was close. She'd felt honored to have been his student, despite the brevity of that relationship, and she'd been over the moon with happiness when Team Seven was partially reconstituted as Team Kakashi.

Sakura focused on the rutted path that lay before her as she passed the three quarters mark on the trail. Only nine and a quarter laps left to go, she muttered to herself. At least she wasn't feeling winded yet, although that didn't really matter. Kakashi wouldn't be around to see her taking a breather, should she need one. But that wouldn't be for a least another lap or two, she guessed.

And it wasn't bad to be out running, and away from the confines of the hospital. She liked being alone with her thoughts. It was a luxury she did not experience at work—the constant calls over the loudspeakers, the chiming and buzzing of alarms, the frequent requests from coworkers and patients—all of these added into a cacophony that precluded any attempts at reflection. But here in the woods, completely alone except for the small thrushes singing diligently above her and the stray chipmunk that crossed her path, she found a beauty and a peace that was soothing and welcome.

She had a good reason, she told herself, for avoiding Valentine's Day this year. It was stupid, as she'd told the boys earlier—a pointless holiday invented by merchants and quite possibly, dentists. Why should she give candy to coworkers, and only male ones, at that? What was it supposed to signify?

That wasn't the real, reason, however, for her lack of action. Her decision had centered around Kakashi. The boys' lack of reciprocation was expected. Naruto was typically too clueless to observe social formalities of that type, and Sasuke, she knew was still a bit gun shy around her. He'd made it clear on several occasions that he thought her obsession with him was still extant, and that he would do everything in his power to avoid any advances she might make. He was wrong, of course, but a part of her understood his feelings. She'd been on the receiving end herself, and still shuddered when she contemplated the many, creative and cringe-inducing ways Rock Lee had made clear his feelings towards her.

But Kakashi was different. He was a man whom she knew to be quite kind and generous. Yes, he did his best to hide it, as these weren't characteristics a ninja wanted to advertise, but those qualities were clearly present if one knew when and where to look. She'd first seen them when they'd battled Zabuza. Kakashi's treatment of the dying Haku had been admirable, and the respect he'd shown toward his enemy had brought her to tears. He was a better ninja because of these traits, she knew. He might be a killing machine, but there was humanity lying just below the surface, tempering his every action.

She'd seen the look of anger and concern when he'd separated her teammates during their ridiculously stupid and short-sighted rooftop battle, and she'd witnessed the intense, searing pain in Kakashi's eyes as he'd returned with a wounded Naruto from the Valley of the End.

So why did the man show absolutely no reaction to her? She'd decided she didn't want to experience his lack of regard this year.

Yes, Kakashi was a man who felt things, though he did his best to hide it. But lately, towards her, he seemed to feel… nothing. He'd always had a least a smile for her (or what she thought was a smile) on the countless occasions when she'd healed him, or brought him dinner. But last year—last Valentine's to be precise—things had changed. The gift hadn't been any different than those she'd made for Naruto and Sasuke—just homemade fudge wrapped in pink cellophane and tied with a white, curly ribbon. She'd been careful to make his gift exactly the same as the others. Weeks before, she'd realized with a bit of shock and a fair amount of trepidation that she had a bit of a crush on the copy ninja. But it wouldn't do to let on.

It wasn't right, she knew. It was completely inappropriate to have feelings for ones teacher, even though they were both adults now. Despite the fact that they now had equal standing as jounin and were no longer in a necessarily unequal relationship, such feelings were not to be tolerated. Her job, she knew, was to put them aside. As a medic, she knew these types of crushes occurred all the time. It was simple transference. Sakura's patients, particularly those who'd been through a lot, often developed feelings for her. It was her duty to let them down easy, as the feelings weren't real. They were a result of stress, of surviving death, and of thankfulness to the person who'd saved them. They were feelings that rightfully should be directed at another, towards some important figure in the patient's past or present. It would be completely wrong for her to take advantage of them. So of course, she never did.

Her feelings for Kakashi had to be the same. Who wouldn't worship a man who'd saved ones life as many times as he had? Who exemplified everything she wanted to be?

It was obvious, now, why he did his best to ignore her.

He must be painfully aware of her feelings. This was the reason he avoided her, and did his best to avoid any physical contact, however innocent. As a professional, he was doing his best to nip things in the bud, to make sure she had no reason to build a one-sided and misplaced affection into something worse.

Knowing this didn't help, however. It was one thing to be on the receiving end of misplaced affection, and quite another to be the giver. It angered her, she realized, that he saw her in this way, even though this view was most probably on target. It angered her even more that her feelings seemed so real.

She'd never felt this way about Sasuke. She'd built him up from a brooding, death-obsessed pre-teen into a near god, and had thought about him constantly. But her thoughts had always been about a fairytale future with him, and how things might be once he'd completed his life's work. In her fantasies, he always transformed into the person she was sure he could be, into a person who was capable of love. Her dreams had never been tinged with the present, nor with images of the person he really was.

Sakura had no illusions about Kakashi. Yes, he exemplified shinobi virtues, but she was quite aware of his clay feet. Her feelings for him were based in reality, on real interactions and observations. And they were tempered with overwhelming evidence that he wasn't perfect. Why couldn't these feelings be real?

She was more than angry, she realized. She was furious. Furious at her misplaced feelings, and at Kakashi for having to let her down. Not buying chocolate for the boys had been spiteful—but in truth, her spite had been directed at Kakashi. Sasuke and Naruto were just victims of friendly fire. Besides, what would they have said if Kakashi had been the only one _not_ to receive a gift? The ensuing discussion would have been unbearable.

He must be relieved, she thought. She'd seen him glance at her, seen the look in his eye that signaled what could only be relief that her attentions towards him had ceased. It hurt, though, that he had to be so cold.

Four laps, she sighed as she passed the main gates of Konoha. She was exhausted already, and her pace had slowed. Thankfully, the boys were nowhere in sight. She pushed herself a bit harder for the next kilometer, then stumbled as she hit a polished, twisted tree root that cut across the path.

She fell heavily, not in the graceful way one would expect from a practiced kunoichi, but in the manner of someone who is about to break a bone. But she heard no tell-tale pop, thankfully, and after controlling her breathing in an attempt to quell the pain shooting through her ankle, Sakura tried to rise slowly to her feet. Her ankle was sprained, she immediately realized, and pretty badly. Thankfully, her pack was nearby, and the boys would be by in minutes. She half-hopped, half-hobbled to the rough-barked, elderly tree and settled herself among its roots.

Three laps had been enough to diminish her chakra significantly, and after the fourth, Sakura was sure there would be little left to work with. She bent her leg to cross the opposite knee, and carefully felt her flesh and bone before applying the bulk of her reserve. It did little to help, not even dulling the pain.

Shit, she muttered, before reaching for her backpack. Her medic kit should have plenty of bandages, and perhaps a chemical compress. She dug through the cluttered contents of her bag, and frowned as she lifted a kit that seemed a bit lighter than usual.

Who was stupid enough to pilfer the supplies of a medic? She didn't need to think hard to come up with an answer—she'd noticed the new, white wraps around Naruto's lower legs just hours before. Sakura leaned back against the tree and sighed. Maybe Sasuke or Kakashi had something in their bags. She reached for the closest, dull green backpack and pulled the cord securing its flap. This one was nearly empty inside, but from the monogrammed lunch set inside, it was clearly Sasuke's. She set the bag aside and grabbed the other, dumping out its neatly packed contents. She quickly concluded there was nothing she might use to wrap her ankle tightly. Sakura sighed as she replaced the items. There was nothing to do but wait. She glanced at the last thing to be replaced in Kakashi's pack—a blue-green book that had been a gift from Naruto, years before.

_Funny that he doesn't have it with him. Ah._

She realized the book in his hand earlier that day had an orange cover. This was evidently a back-up.

Sakura opened the book and noted the inscription on its flyleaf. "To a hentai among hentai," it read. Sakura shook her head. Only the village's two biggest perverts would consider that term a compliment.

The book was as bad as she'd thought it would be. She'd long wondered about the contents of the _Icha, Icha_ series, but as she had no desire to cross the threshold of the one store in town that sold it, she'd satisfied her curiosity by listening to Naruto's colorful, if somewhat crass synopses. The real thing was worse, however, than anything her friend had related. Its main character was in a threesome or foursome on almost every page, and as she flipped through the book, she saw that most of the woman weren't even assigned names. She'd read better literature, she realized, on bathroom walls. Sakura couldn't imagine why a book of this sort would make Kakashi giggle. How could this possibly be the pinnacle of adult literature?

Sakura paged through the rest of the book, as there was nothing else to do, rolling her eyes occasionally at the inane pick-up lines the main character made at every meeting. Really, it was almost painful to read. She was about to set the book aside when she came across a small, white paper tucked among the book's last pages. It was a note, in Kakashi's unmistakable, yet barely legible cursive. He barely lifted pen from paper as he made each stroke, his writing resembling more the stylized calligraphy on a Zen painting than anything intending communication.

However, as a medic Sakura was used to the poor writing skills of her harried colleagues, and she found that with some effort, she was able to decode Kakashi's writing. It wasn't a note, she realized belatedly. She felt a slight, belated pang of guilt. Who knew the man wrote poetry? That didn't seem possible—he must have copied it.

_You are a field,_

_A pink-kissed meadow,_

_And I want_

_To roll in your abundance._

A blush rose to Sakura's cheeks. She really shouldn't be reading this. It was obviously personal, far more personal than any _Icha, Icha_ book. But she found she couldn't replace the poem.

_You are a blossom,_

_A fragile, pale flower,_

_And I want_

_To inhale your sweet fragrance_

_And anoint myself with_

_Your precious oils._

_You are a gem,_

_A priceless emerald,_

_And oh, how I want_

_To mount you,_

_In a setting approaching_

_Your magnificence:_

_An oaken wood, perhaps,_

_Or the dappled shadow_

_Of a willow tree._

_With moss as our bed_

_And the sky as blanket,_

_There, I will make you mine._

Sakura held the paper tightly as she read, and reread its contents, the blush on her face growing deeper and deeper each time she did so. She lost herself in its words once more, envying its intended recipient. She didn't hear him approach, didn't feel his chakra as he crouched beside her, or notice the very strange look in his eye as he glanced from the book in her lap, to the paper in her hands, and finally to her face.

"Sakura?"

She jumped, then winced as she jarred her ankle. Her eyes widened as she realized just how much trouble she was in. "I--- I can explain."

"No need." He gently pulled the paper from her clutched hand, smoothed it, and replaced it in the book. He was oddly quiet, she thought, and strangely calm. This did not bode well. She shrinked away as he settled himself beside her, leaning back against the oversized trunk of their only witness. What was he doing? Probably finding the best position to throttle her.

"Sakura?"

"Yes?" She couldn't hide the tremor in her voice.

"You shouldn't have read that."

"I know." She nearly jumped up again in her eagerness to apologize. "I sprained my ankle, and Naruto stole my bandages, and I thought you might have some and I never should have invaded—"

"That's not what I meant. It's just that…"

She suddenly noticed the color in his face, a slight redness on the small portion of his face that was visible to her.

"It's just that… I wasn't quite finished with it, yet."

End.


End file.
